


Occupational Hazards

by LeraOmo (Lera_Myers)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Desperation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Omorashi, Sickfic, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lera_Myers/pseuds/LeraOmo
Summary: Hawke's injured, but some things can only be put off for so long.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Occupational Hazards

**Author's Note:**

> I've been gone too long. What a year, huh?
> 
> As usual, please read all tags! This story contains omorashi.

How long has Hawke been looking forward to this? It’s the first night she and Anders have shared a room, and here she is too sick to enjoy it. Not that this would be happening now if she were healthy. Take a giant spider’s huge fangs to the leg, guarantee yourself a night or two inpatient in the healer’s clinic. And for good reason too. The estate’s nice and everything, but she couldn’t have climbed all those stairs today. Void, she could hardly _move_ at first. Anders used antivenoms to the extent they’ll help, but it isn’t a miracle cure. All they can do after that, he said, is wait and give her body time to filter it out.

Hawke squints blearily into the darkness. She thinks it was early afternoon when Anders first helped her into this cot, and she’s woken a few times since then. It’s all a bit blurry, but she remembers him rubbing ointment onto the wounds, then bringing a couple of elfroot potions along with a bowl of clear broth for her supper. How did she get so lucky to meet such a good healer? The flirting is a nice bonus, at least when she’s not dealing with the aftereffects of poison in her system.

He’s not at her bedside this time, though. She props herself up on her elbows, intending to look around and see what woke her, when a sharp wave of pressure in her pelvis answers that question. With a gasp, Hawke flops back onto the mattress, one hand flying down to give herself a squeeze. How did she sleep so long when her bladder’s on the verge of exploding? It’s so full it hurts.

Right. He asked earlier if she needed to use the privy, and fool that she was, she said no. Her head had been spinning so badly at the time that it seemed like an impossibly difficult question, and then she was asleep again. No wonder she’s bursting at the seams, she hasn’t had a chance to _go_ since this morning.

More gingerly this time, Hawke sits up. She eyes the cold lantern and debates calling mana to light it, but dismisses the idea almost immediately. With the way her coordination is right now, she’s likely to set something on fire by accident. There’s a faint bit of light coming from under the door - that should be enough.No reason to wake Anders; he’s been waiting on her half the day. Let him get some sleep.

The mere act of sliding to the floor on hands and knees makes her dizzy. She gulps in breath, pressing her thighs together as her bladder throbs. Pathetic that a little venom could make her this vulnerable, she thinks. All she has to do is grab the chamber pot, something she can do while half-asleep most nights. Then again, she’s in her own home most nights.

With no light and no knowledge of where the pot might be, she has to feel around with her fingers. Only on the second pass does the realization hit her that it’s not there, and still she gropes around a third time, stomach sinking.

 _Damn!_ She wriggles in discomfort. For a minute she gazes around in the dark - no bedside table, no other likely space where it would be that she can make out. She’s going to have to wake him. Better that than stumbling around trying to find the privy alone.

“Anders,” she whispers sharply in the direction of his bed. Two seconds, three, four, five, but he doesn’t respond. A little louder, she manages, “Anders!”

He doesn’t even stir. Hawke pulls up to a stand, almost managing it before another wave of urgency has her grabbing herself again. She sits back on the mattress, one foot jiggling rapidly to help hold back the flood.

“Anders?” she tries once more, to no effect. Is she going to need to shake him? If she didn’t have to piss so badly, she’d be embarrassed. As it is, it’s either wake him up for help or soak the bed.

Steeling herself, she gets to her feet and manages a few careful steps. The floor slants dangerously under her, and she feels for the wall with her free hand. If all she can see of him in the dark is his outline, she reasons, it shouldn’t be obvious to him that she’s still gripping herself. She may be younger than him, but she doesn’t need to be perceived as a child.

Her body really doesn’t want to be standing right now. Hawke shuts her eyes, fighting the urge to heave. Everything feels like it’s spinning, no matter how slowly she moves. Her injured leg aches, pains shooting through it each time she puts that foot down. And her head might as well have a horde of Qunari rampaging through it. It’s an unpleasant feeling of being at war with herself, the insistent pulsing in her lower stomach demanding she hurry while everything else begs her to slow down. She hasn’t even made it halfway to Anders’s bunk.

Without warning, her bladder spasms, sending a burst of wet heat down her legs. She moans, leaning against the wall so she can grip herself more firmly, and practically writhes trying to regain control. Her muscles burn, she’s clenching them so tight, and that is very definitely a wet patch she can feel on her pants. Why, why, why does she have to be wearing light gray? It wouldn’t show if she had her black pair on…

Mortified, she glances at Anders’s sleeping form. Can’t wake him now. He’ll put the light on if she does, and she can’t let him _see_ -

She’s all but bouncing on her good leg, both hands buried between her thighs. The gallons of liquid inside her push down with every heartbeat in a bid for escape, urging her to think faster. Shuddering, Hawke glances at the door.

 _Fuck it._ She’ll go outside. It won’t be the first time she’s peed in a Darktown alley.

The room sways violently when she turns towards the door, moving as quickly as she’s able. Hawke inhales, closing her eyes and willing herself forward. Her weight comes down a little too hard on her injured leg with the first step, a whine torn from her throat as another spurt of piss escapes. She gives up, sort of dragging that foot behind her instead. Pain sears up every one of its nerve endings, but she keeps at it only because it’s less jarring. There’s no room in her brain for moving carefully, or stabilizing it, or anything other than the unbearable need to empty herself. The ache in her stomach is worse than that in her leg and head put together.

_Come on, come on, just to the door._

When she opens her eyes, she’s veered off-course and has to correct herself. Voices chatter outside faintly, probably guards on night patrol, but the threat of being caught isn’t something she can bring herself to care about. Not as long as she can get some relief.

Finally, _finally_ she’s within arm’s length of the door. Hawke reaches out a shaking hand to open it, only for the door to skid to a halt almost immediately. She gives it another pull, and it hardly moves. There’s maybe half an inch of space, not enough to squeeze through.

On the third try, there’s a dull sound as the door hits something, and it clicks in her mind. Of course. Anders’s makeshift doorstops in case templars try to pay a midnight visit. They might be nothing more than heavy blocks, but they work well. Too well.

Colorful spots dance in front of her eyes and she tries to blink them away, pressing her fingers desperately against herself. She only has a minute or two left now, and she sends a frantic prayer to the Maker, begging for her body to _cooperate_ long enough to get this done.

The heavy blocks - damn them! She can’t bend over like this, she’ll have to use her feet. Hawke shifts her weight, trying to lean hard against the door so she can lift her good leg. Stretching forward as much as she dares, she feels the edge of the block against her toes and gives it a hard push.

It’s her undoing. She loses her balance with that movement, and grabs blindly behind her, only realizing it’s a mistake when the door slams shut. Unable to find purchase, she topples sideways into a chest of drawers with a yelp, then hits the floor, and the shock makes her bladder let go. She whimpers aloud, clenching for all she’s worth, to no use. The stream is so forceful it actually stings at first, like her body is trying to push everything out at once, but after a few seconds the pain dissipates.

“Hawke?”

No, _Maker,_ no. Why did he have to wake up now?

Before she can manage a response, Anders flicks his fingers to light the lantern. Hawke buries her face in her hands and turns away, not wanting to see the disgust that must be all over his expression. All she can do is quiver where she sits, helpless to the stream still flowing out of her, the rapidly-expanding puddle on the floor.

“Oh,” he breathes. To her horror, she hears herself sob. She doesn’t want to cry, not now, but it’s proving to be another thing she can’t hold in.

He crosses the room, footsteps light, to crouch down to next to her. “Are you all right, love?”

If she didn’t feel so awful, she’d fire off some sarcastic response. Instead, she can only shake her head as the trickling finally stops, her voice barely audible. “No.”

Anders pauses, then dims the light, which does help a little. “Let me rephrase,” he says. “I heard you fall. Are you hurt?”

She hesitates, mentally taking inventory. There isn’t even any room in her for the relief of being empty. Now that she’s not distracted by that sensation anymore, the pain in her leg has become agony, and her head throbs so badly she has to rest it against the wall. “I - I don’t think so?”

He brushes her hair out of her face tenderly, and she screws up the courage to look at him, blinking away tears. “I tried to wake you up,” she manages, needing to justify this mess, “but…”

Anders rocks her gently. “I’m worried about _you,_ not the floor,” he says. “Can you stand if I help?”

Hawke wipes her eyes and nods. With him supporting under her armpits, she straightens, focusing on her legs to keep them from buckling. In the light, she can see the wet streaks all too clearly. Judging by the way her pants stick to her ass, the damage is even worse there - and then Anders is shifting his stance, calling mana to dry her. She murmurs gratitude, primarily for not having to worry about the logistics of changing clothes just now. Once she gets home, she might burn these.

“I’m so sorry.” She draws a shaky breath as he reaches to dry the floor. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know you didn’t.” He hugs her to his chest, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you back in bed, I’ll give you a check-over.”

She nods, inhaling the smell of him, and lets herself be led. Once she’s settled back on the mattress, he reaches for another potion, uncorking it before he hands it to her.

“For the fever,” he says, carefully rolling up her pant leg to check on the bite. “I’m sorry you couldn’t wake me.”

Hawke drinks the potion slowly, grateful for the excuse not to speak, as he reapplies ointment to her wound. She searches his face for revulsion but finds none. “You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you?” she asks shyly. Even though she knows the answer, she needs to hear him say it.

“Of course not.” He cups her cheek. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think any less of you. It happens to plenty of people who _aren’t_ out of their heads with spider venom.”

She leans in for him to kiss her, gently, before he guides her to lay down. The blanket settles on top of her, and in the instant before she’s asleep, all she’s aware of is his hand stroking her forehead soothingly, back and forth, back and forth.


End file.
